From "Ragnarok Summer" by Matthew Maxwell

Perhaps now they’d learn to stop calling his name. If only for a year.

He paused, boot crunching a knot of bone that jutted from the soil. There was a…sound, beneath his feet. At least he thought it to be a sound.

It wasn’t heard so much as felt, a keening, a vibration that shot from the soles of his feet through his guts and to the top of his skull. The sensation sundered Thor’s bravado from within, clutching his heart and wrenching it like a dog would a bone. Even as the sound faded, his body rang with it sure as a bell.

The earth screamed in rage, a shattering sound of stone cracking, clods of dirt and rock being spit from a maw that opened in the plain. Thor turned in shock as the ground ruptured, coughing black dust and bones in a grisly rain. A flock of rusted weapons without an edge, or even a memory of it, hung in the air before arcing back into gravity’s pull. Mail coats, decayed into uselessness, were cast into veils of bloody rust that blocked the summer sun. A cacophony of dented metal helmets and skulls fell before the silence returned.